With Autumn's Return (Westward Winds Book #3): A Novel by Amanda Cabot Page A

Worland glared at Elizabeth. “Did you ever deal with typhoid?”
    Elizabeth wasn’t certain why she didn’t leave. It was clear there would be no partnership, not even a possible sharing of professional experiences. This man’s interrogation told her he wasn’t interested in learning what she had done; he merely wanted to trip her up. But still, she couldn’t stop herself from responding. “I have treated typhoid. Cholera, malaria, and diphtheria too. And before you ask, the mortality rate of my patients was below average.”
    Raised brows telegraphed his disbelief. “That’s a fine story, missy. It might convince others, but I’m not so easily taken in. It’s as plain to me as the nose on my face. You’ve got yourself some book learning. Probably some newfangled ideas too. Those won’t sit well with folks out here. Folks expect the basics. Bleed ’em, blister ’em, and purge ’em.”
    She should have expected it, given the cabinet filled with patent medicines, and yet Elizabeth was shocked by the doctor’s treatment basics. “You’re joking, of course.”
    His eyes narrowed as he took a step closer, his expression threatening. “I most definitely am not joking. I learned my trade as a surgeon during the War Between the States. I saved plenty of men using exactly those techniques. A flighty little lady like you isn’t going to convince me to change my ways.”
    “No Eastern doctor would resort to heroic medicine.” Though she had never understood the reason for the term, the now-discredited techniques of bleeding, blistering, and purging were frequently referred to as heroic medicine. “We have much gentler and more efficacious methods of treating our patients.”
    His face darkening with anger, Dr. Worland jabbed a finger at Elizabeth. “You think you’re smart, don’t you, with that brand-new diploma and those big words? Let me tell you something, missy. You’ll never be a doctor here. Go back East. There’s no future for you in Cheyenne.”

 4 
     
    I ’m glad you didn’t mind coming early.” Miriam Eberhardt extended both hands in greeting as Richard led Elizabeth into the large parlor that would serve as a ballroom tonight. Like Miriam, the room was dressed in its best, but Elizabeth had expected no less. As Richard had driven her east on 18th Street, he’d pointed out Maple Terrace, the building that contained five three-story town houses. Though there was no question that they were far more spacious than the apartment Elizabeth shared with Gwen, Richard claimed that his and Miriam’s home at Maple Terrace was too small for entertaining. The same complaint could not be made of the Taggerts’ mansion. With a tower on one corner and a turret on another, plus a large circular window over the front entry, the huge sandstone building was the most ornate on 18th east of Central Avenue.
    Elizabeth smiled at both her hostess and the beautiful room. Miriam wore a grass-green silk gown that shimmered as she walked, while potted palms and arrangements of freshflowers graced the parlor. The floor was bare, the carpet having been removed for dancing, and only a few chairs lined one wall. Though at the moment the room was virtually empty, Elizabeth knew that within an hour, it would be filled with the sights, scents, and sounds of guests. Now it was the fragrance of lilacs and the somewhat discordant sounds of musicians tuning their instruments that greeted her.
    “I know some people prefer to make an entrance after the other guests have arrived,” Miriam continued, nodding her perfectly coiffed blonde head to punctuate her words, “but Mama and I thought a receiving line would be the best way to introduce you to everyone. That way we’ll know we haven’t missed anyone.”
    Elizabeth smiled again. “The thought of a receiving line takes me back to my childhood. Every time we moved to a new town, there was a receiving line at the church. My sisters and I dreaded them, because it seemed that